


Chiaroscuro

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Museum of Natural History, Museums, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Work, The Met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 14:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12796635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: The skill demonstrated by the artist in the use of shadows to create the illusion of three-dimensional forms.





	Chiaroscuro

The great room with it’s enormous blue whale sounded like the heart of the ocean. Even with all the effects turned off and the lights going from dim to dark after closing, there was something marvelously ethereal about it. 

Loki stared up at the gigantic beast, her fiberglass skin gleaming in the shadows. How loud the rush of the sea was in his ears! He was suspended in salt water, his senses overwhelmed even as he lay flat on his back against the unforgiving, much trampled carpet. As his body reached the height of pleasure, his mind floated upward. The hot crumpled reality of the man fucking him collapsed on top of him. 

But Loki was with the whale and for a brief, feverish moment, he could have sworn that the great body moved, her tail rising and falling to propel herself from her chains to swim into the other halls, past papier mache bodies, and ancient shards of pottery. 

“The east elevators,” perfumed breath swam in front of Loki’s nose, yanking him back to the real present. Just a few rooms away a gala pranced along, music trickling in. The museum director stood, the extravagant tails of his tuxedo sweeping up behind him as he tucked his cock away. “That should be a good display place, don’t you think?” 

“Yes,” Loki stretched, returning fully to his body. It was sticky and ill used, but there was no pain. “Thank you.” 

“No,” the director passed two fingers across his lips. “Thank you.” 

Loki didn't return to the gala. His suit had wrinkled and his eyeliner had run some. Instead, he cleaned himself up with a few napkins stolen from the cafe and slipped into the museum proper. 

He walked through the long halls, stopping here and there to admire a particular piece. Here was stone carved with hands so long dead that it seemed impossible the results of their lives should remain. There was a ridiculous bit of taxidermy that animated the skin of animals that should’ve been left in peace. Usually a thousand voices brought life into these places, but the gala was mostly contained in one hall and he had the place to himself. 

For a half an hour, Loki could pretend this was truly his museum. That even in his crumpled undertaker suit and degrees that had done more to bankrupt him then enrich him, he could be the master of this vast strange domain. 

He didn’t got up into the lighter halls of the dinosaur bones. He felt most at home in the dim long stretches of cases that imprisoned the dead. Perhaps he would be better off on the other side of the plexiglass. A plaque next to his feet explaining the art of curation as his frozen fingers adjusted something against the wall and paint chips fell from his pocket. 

The carpet muffled the fall of his footsteps. Once he had gone, like so many before him, it would be as if he’d never been here. 

He exited into the night, the first hint of frost in the air. He dragged gloves over his hands and wrapped his scarf twice around his face. The cold was an old friend. The winters of his youth were laced with happier memories of roughhousing in the snow. He ghosted his breath in front of him as he walked to the subway. Not for the first time, he indulged himself in imagining living close the museum, in one of the luxury apartment buildings that overlooked Central Park. How he could stand at his window and see it all stretch out before him. 

Instead of going into any of them though, he descended into the subway. This late at night, there were plenty of seats. He stretched out a little and opened his Kindle. He read as stations trickled past. 

It was a long commute back to the Brooklyn. The block that he lived on had an artisan cheese store, competing laundry services, and a lingering smell of past poverty paved over by wide eyed youths with beards, black rimmed glasses, and pretensions. It was fine as these things went. Loki’s key let him up a flight of stairs up over one of the laundry services. The hallway smelled like detergent, but the apartment reeked of vodka. 

Val was passed out on the couch, the television blurring muted scenes of light over her. She huffed a snore as the door closed. Loki sighed, turning off the television and throwing a blanket over her, half covering her face. He wasn’t much of a caretaker, but without her, there was no apartment. Her name was the one on the lease and he paid her only a third of the rent. A kindness that chafed. The least he could was make sure she didn’t freeze. 

His room was a closet with a window that let in the chill and an antique radiator that coughed up heat to combat it. His bed was shoved into one corner and shelves stacked up on the walls to hold his clothes, computer, and evidence of his many sins. 

Tonight, he lit a joint with the window cracked and spread himself wide on piles of blankets, smoke billowing around him as he idly checked an email. He could start planning his exhibit next week, the first he would run on his own straight from the director’s mouth. 

His other job, the one that kept him in food and bed, would keep him busy this weekend. All his regulars had appointments. Little blue pills would revitalize him, build him new again between sessions. 

A new him for each one was packed neatly in his briefcase.

The pot slowed him and made him heavy lidded. He turned on music and fell asleep to coaxing female voices singing about the failures of love.

In the morning, he could hear Val talking in the kitchen and a low male voice rumbling. He dressed in his running gear and slipped by them. Since the last big party they’d thrown, Loki had been studiously avoiding Hulk. The coffee table and his ribs had never been the same.

He ran down Saturday morning streets, sweating into his hair as his legs prickled in the cold. He kept himself slender and hard, ready to be ingénue and dominator in a breath as required. The Rolling Stones sang him through it, painting the walls black with the devil’s eyes. 

Shower in the now empty apartment, taking care to blow his hair out sleek and straight though it would be a wavy greasy wreck by the end of the night. 

Then to Jonah who wanted a sweet shoulder to cry on and hold him and tell him he was kind when he was not. To Vivian who had made herself lonely all her life and wanted a willing body to bury her hate in. To Henny who did amazing drag and smelled of expensive perfumes who wanted to be kissed expansively and fucked slowly. And last to Therese who liked rough masculine company on the nights her husband was away. 

Sunday he curled up in bed and was nothing to no one for all of nine hours. He watched YouTube videos of painting restoration, ate protein bars for sustenance, and drank a beer from sheer nostalgia. 

Back to work on Monday, head held high as the director sent him an email with explicit direction to start planning his exhibit. Loki almost rubbed his hands together in delight. 

Even though it was mid-day and crowded with school groups, Loki headed out to check the small corner that would hold his materials. The children milled around him, one noticing his badge. 

“Do you work here, sir?” she asked quietly, her dark curls glistening under the faded lights. 

“I do,” he smiled down at her. “I help make the exhibits.” 

“That’s really cool,” she decided. Her class were lining up to tour another section, so Loki walked that way as she enthused to him, “did you do anything with the Aztec temple model? I liked that the best so far.” 

“No, believe it or not that model is older than me,” he laughed. “It’s been here a very very long time.” 

“Wow,” her eyes went wide. “It looks so new.” 

“We work hard to keep it clean. We have to be very careful, but we use special little dusters.” 

He showed her a picture of the tool on his phone, some of her friends gathering around. The docent was having a quiet conversation with the teacher, so he didn’t feel as though he was infringing. 

“Like how they use toothbrushes on dinosaur bones?” One boy asked leaning in. 

“A lot like that,” he agreed. “If you’re not careful you can wear away the surface while trying to keep in clean. You have to weigh the benefits of preservation over presentation.” 

“That’s right,” the docent chimed in, giving Loki a relieved smile. Apparently she’d needed the break. “All right, third graders! Let’s go see the next exhibit.” 

‘Say thank you to,” the teacher glanced at his name badge, “Mr. Odinson.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Odinson!” they sing-songed and then were off. 

He never quite heard his own name in that anymore. He wondered if he could get away with going by just Loki ala Madonna. That’d be nice. 

Val wasn’t passed out when he got home that night. Instead, she was cleaning the sleek rifle that she kept over her bed. Her eyes were puffy and dark with lack of sleep, her hands heavy at their work. 

“I got the exhibit,” he told her. Because who else was there to tell? 

She gave him a nod of something like approval, “I’m going to get Indian, you want?” 

They split a curry and a pile of naan, watching Law and Order. 

When Loki first washed up on America’s shores clutching the tattered remains of his dignity around him, he’d found a smoky bar to sit and plan his future. On a tall stool sat a brooding hunched figure downing shot after after shot of vodka. The smooth skin of her wrist boasted a tattoo faded with age in a language he’d once thought of as his mother tongue.

“Another?” he asked her Danish. She gave him a cutting look. He ordered a round and passed her a shot. After that, he spoke to her only in English. 

“Why are you here?” She asked when she was too drunk not to ask. 

“I crash landed,” he shrugged. “But I have no intention of going back.” 

“Me either,” she ran her tongue over her white even teeth. “Walk with me.” 

The liquor left her addled, but upright and she did not waver in her arrow straight patrol. Loki fell into step with her. Told her about his background, what kind of job he was looking for. 

“I know a man,” she gave him a quirk of a smile. “You’ll like him. He’s a thief too.” 

“I’m not a thief,” he protested, but her sidelined look sliced through him. “Not by trade anyway. Everyone needs a hobby.” 

The director was beautiful in the way a spider could be. He crawled over Loki from their first meeting, full of interest and affectations. Loki liked him as much as he liked anyone. They began their seductive dance and the small slice of a job that Loki could just begin to breath. 

Val carelessly gave him a key to her place and a demand of cash payments on the second Thursday of the month. She’d given him this new life and found his other job a source of benign amusement. 

Now they ate curry while a D list actor told Stabler where the body was and the rain drummed on the rooftop. 

“How’s the boyfriend?” he asked casually. 

“He’s just a friend,” she shrugged. “Only one at the gym that can keep up with me. He thinks we can both make America Ninja Warriors next season.” 

“Do you want to?” he frowned. 

“Sure,” she yawned. “It’d be a laugh.” 

“Do you expect me to be there with a sign?” he quirked a smile. 

“If not you, then who?” she reached for a bottle of whiskey. 

“Fine, but my t-shirt is going to say Valkyrie Does It On Horseback.” 

She kicked him between the shoulder blades while he laughed. 

The world was an unkind and thorny place, but there were still good things in it. 

On Tuesday, he walked into his office, paused and started to walk straight out again. 

“Loki,” his name was broken in two with sadness. “Please.” 

He hesitated and turned back. Like Lot’s wife. Except instead of getting turned to salt, he had to look his brother in the eyes for the first time in three years. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Thor flexed his hands, looking wildly around the cramped space. It smelled irredeemably of mothballs. “Father is dead.” 

“I see,” Loki blinked. For a moment, he could sense the old man between them where he’d always lodged himself. His anger and love larger than life. “You came a long way for that.” 

“He hadn’t written you out of the will.” 

“No?” He felt a flush of anger. “Well, I’m sure that was a minor oversight. Do you want me to sign something? Testify that it should all be yours? The adoption wasn’t even done legally, I won’t have a leg to stand on in court.” 

“No! No, it’s not that,” Thor frowned. “Whatever he would’ve given to you is yours. But there’s...there’s another heir. An older sister.” 

“A sister,” he repeated, feeling stupidly behind. “Did you know?” 

“Not until he was on his deathbed,” was that bitterness? From Thor? Would miracles never cease. “She showed up at his funeral and took over. She burned whatever documents she could get her hands on. I still have the will, but she’s poisoned all the lawyers in the country against me. I can’t get anyone to take my case.” 

“So you came to get me. After all these years, because you know I’m a useful tool.” 

“Why do you always have to twist things up?” Thor pounded his fist once on Loki’s desk, all his papers swirling momentarily upward. “I...I just didn’t want to be alone.” 

Loki stared across the chasm between them. Thor was flushed and his eyes held a sheen of fatigue. 

“Do you have a place to stay?” 

His bed was hardly wide enough for them both, but they’d made do with less before. In the morning, Thor was already eating breakfast with Val and Hulk as if they were all old friends. 

“Loki! I didn’t know America had such good cereals,” he was devouring an intimidatingly large bowl of Lucky Charms. 

“Yes, sugar is a particular strong point,” 

Hulk was taking turns glaring at Loki and Thor as if he couldn’t decide who was more irritating while Val seemed to be laughing behind her mimosa. 

“Your brother thinks that he’s going to organize a militia to retake your father’s company,” Val’s eyes sparkled. 

“You do that,” Loki leaned down to tie his shoes. “I’m going to go for a run. Let me know how it turns out.” 

His breath puffed white in front of him, frost lingering on the parked cars. A certain heady silence had overtaken the streets. As he ran, he became aware of a trailing set of footsteps. He increased his speed, but he could sense his pursuer gaining on him. He ducked down a narrow street, wrapping his path around the labyrinthine stretches between buildings. He grinned, feral and wide as he jumped over an overflowing gutter. 

At last, Thor was beside him, flushed pink with exertion. He held out a hand, grasping Loki’s until he slowed and stopped beneath a fading tree. 

“I won’t make you come with me. You don’t have to help,” he held on to him. “I know you’re life is here.” 

“It is,” Loki agreed stiffly. He could almost smell the snow coming. 

“Let me stay then. For now. Until I know what to do next.” 

So he stayed and life went on. Loki trysted with the director, meeting him in his office for long meetings. He wrote up a formal proposal for the graphic design department. Thor asked about it, visited the museum often. After the first few days, he didn’t even always seek out Loki. He would just be full of questions at dinner about hunting, pottery, music, and the magic of a hot pretzel. 

On the first Saturday, Loki began to pack his bag under Thor’s sleepy gaze. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To earn my keep,” he said dryly. 

“Are you at it again?” The big body tensed under the thin sheet. 

“And what if I am? What if I never stopped?” 

The question hung sharpened between them, ready to dig into ancient wounds. 

“I hope you’re safe.” 

“As safe as anything,” Loki looked away as he folded silk down tight. 

“It truly doesn’t bother you?” 

“Not any more than doing it for free.” 

Thor said nothing more, but watched his every move until he was gone. All through his appointments that day, he could feel that stare on him. Instead of dimming his enjoyment, it drove it ever up. A regular offered him a line of coke and he took it eagerly. The buzz of wanting to do everything in a single moment rattled through him. He had tried to seize power once, tried to coax it another. Now it came to him easily with a smile or a crook of his finger. If only he’d known that the power he wanted could be found in beds instead of board rooms, he would’ve made himself much happier far long ago. 

He didn’t know how to explain that to Thor. Didn’t know if he wanted to bother. Thor would think that his clients were pathetic, where Loki found them all beautiful in their ways. He would think it was tawdry to look someone in the eye and extol their virtues then take their cash. Loki just thought it was tidy. Everyone wanted something. Thor wanted Loki to be his brother and maybe, again his lover. If Loki explained that Thor’s payment just happened to take a different form (affection, love, loyalty, forgiveness things that he craved far more than cash), it would be taken all wrong. 

On Sunday, Thor wouldn’t let him stay in bed. 

“Show me your city,” he coaxed and eventually, Loki rose to swath himself in his coat and gloves. 

They went out into a messy windy day with rain that leaned toward ice. He hunched into his coat and was grateful for the foul gust of hot air the leached up from the subway as they descended. 

“What do you want to see? The Empire State Building? Central Park?” 

“I’ve walked through the park all week,” Thor said a little sheepishly. “I like your museum, but it’s very dark. Is there another that I should see?”

Loki took him to the Met. It’s lofty marble cathedral reminded him of their home, though he supposed it had been renovated and changed since he last saw it. The hallways of their childhood had always echoed just like this though. 

“What should we see first?” Thor looked amused by the map Loki handed to him. “You must have come here many times.” 

“At first, yes. I haven’t been back in some time,” before Val had set him up with the director, he had come here during the day. It was a place to be inside and among things that he loved. Apart from him, but a part of him forever. “They have an Egyptian temple rebuilt in one of the halls.” 

“Show me,” Thor demanded, the map going into his pocket. 

Loki’s feet recalled the way. The Egyptian wing was interesting, done up only a little differently than at the Natural History Museum. Thor glanced at all the ancient gold, pausing at sarcophagus. 

“I hope that their souls really do go onto the afterlife,” he said quietly. “It would be a shame to be trapped here, to be stared at as an oddity.” 

“It would,” Loki stared at the painting of a long dead face. “But it would be far worse to be forgotten.” 

The Temple of Dendar was a graceful statement amid black tile and the wall of windows that gazed out into Central Park. There was an agreement of hush in the echos, museum goers clustering in bunches or sitting alone with a book or phone in hand. 

They stood together, silent as the pillars before them. And didn’t they also hold up the crumbling remains of a nearly dead culture? How odd for one to gaze upon the other. 

“Is this your favorite place here?” Thor asked, even his great voice humbled to a thin whisper. 

“No,” Loki pressed his lips together. “I always thought it was too stark.” 

“Take me to your paintings then,” it sounded indulgent like a treat for a small child, but Loki seized the chance and took him down the halls. 

They wound their way to the heart of the second floor with it’s generous rooms with walls shaded in greys and blues and creams. Loki was ever enraptured. In hardly mattered if he’d seen them dozens of times before. He gravitated to the portraits as he always did. The baroque artists were his absolute favorites. The way they somehow captured life in a still image arrested him. 

He stood before a Rembrandt, his Bellona and his breath quieted to almost nothing. How she stared into the viewer, self-assured in the strength of her shield and sword. 

“Who is she?” Thor asked, amusement still lacing his voice. 

“The Roman goddess of war,” his hands tucked into the small of his back, the place they always went in such moments. “It was probably intended to show that the patron supported a war with Spain at the time.” 

“Not very warrior like,” Thor rocked on his heels a little. “She looks motherly.” 

“Our mother could’ve taken you apart piece by piece if she wanted to,” Loki pointed out with some amusement. 

“Yes,” Thor said solemnly. 

“And maybe, the goddess of war is a kind of mother,” Loki went on, “she births what comes after for better or worse.” 

“This is where I thought I’d find you, when I found out you were working in a museum.” 

“Really?” Loki frowned glancing at to him. “Why?” 

“You liked it best,” he shrugged. “You read about everything, but I know the pages with these things were always what you stayed on the longest. When you used to paint, I know these were the colors that you used the most.” 

“I haven’t painted in a long time,” his fingers twitched in memory. The acrid smell of fresh paint, the glide of a brush over wood. Their father had starved and strangled that passion then life had taken care of the rest. 

Thor’s hand brushed his own. He didn’t hurry Loki on. He waited for him to drift from one painting to the next, asking questions now and then. The sun slid slowly away, the lights inside seeming to grow brighter. 

They walked through a hall of statues, poised in athletic acts. 

“You could’ve modeled for these,” Loki said, a little ruefully. He would’ve never qualified. 

“I only model for one artist,” Thor gave him a sidelong look. “And I’m told he doesn’t work anymore.” 

The painting must be gone now, Loki thought. Laying in the ruins of their childhood home. Surely Hela wouldn’t care for it. Just a small portrait done with childish skill. A teenager asleep in a field of wheat, his honey hair spread around his head in a halo. 

They bought hot dogs from a cart on the street, mustard for Loki and everything else piled on Thor’s. They ate them in gloved hands under a store awning, a crowd of puffy coats and broken umbrellas passing them by. 

They took the subway back to Brooklyn, holding onto to a center rail. Loki swayed with the rhythm of the car acutely aware of Thor’s hand just above his. 

“Val said that I could train with her and Hulk this evening,” Thor said as they climbed back up to the street. “Would you like to come?” 

“I don’t think I could keep up.” 

“Then sit and read like you used to,” Thor gave him a half-smile. 

Sit and watch as he used to, he meant. The book always becoming a prop as two of the people he loved most did elegant battle. Sif’s laughter like a bell in the morning air still sometimes woke Loki from a deep sleep. 

“Do you miss her?” 

“All the time,” Thor shoved his hands in his pockets. “But she does send an email now and then. She’s doing better without me. Us.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” 

“She asks about you in them.” 

“What do you tell her?” Loki couldn’t imagine. 

“That I didn’t know,” Thor smiled, “but I can tell her otherwise now, can’t I?” 

“Do you know now?” Loki turned to walk backwards so he could look Thor in the eye. 

“I had forgotten how good you are at that,” Thor laughed as Loki neatly sidestepped an oncoming bike. “I used to think you had eyes in the back of your head.” 

“Maybe I do,” he smiled back, unable to stop himself. 

“I’ll tell her that you’re well. You’re doing something you love.” 

“Accurate,” he decided and turned back around just in time to avoid being run down by a pack of teenagers. 

The gym smelled unpleasantly like sweat and bleach used to wipe the sweat away. Loki brought his Kindle and settled himself on a pile of mats that no one was using. He was perfectly out of place in his black on black suit, but he was no longer a child among trained bullies. Most eyes slid right over him and the few that took him in just smiled politely and went on with their day. A few even showed off for him a little. 

“They think you’re a scout,” Val explained as she taped her hands. “A lot of people here want to do MMA or something. And scouts don’t always look like the talent.” 

He did read some of his book. The biography detailed Van Gogh’s life in obsessive empathic detail and Loki could admit to finding something of himself in the paragraphs of self-loathing, irritability, melancholy, and attachment to a loving, but often helpless brother. The letters ached to read: 

_What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart._

“Surely you can do better!” Thor was grinning wildly, hopping around the boxing ring. He was flushed with excitement. Hulk was baring his teeth and Val was sitting on ropes, bouncing a little with giddiness. 

Hulk charged him and landed a solid blow, Thor thudded down. He did bounce up rather readily and Loki had to wonder if time had affected him at all or if still had the same boundless strength and energy he’d had as a child. 

The trials of a long dead artist slowly lost his attention as the fight grew more intense. He noticed, peripherally, others stopping their own practice to come and see. Hulk and Thor seemed evenly matched, dancing around each other and landing meaty hits that made Loki wince. He wondered if someone would interfere when the blood started to flow, but there was no need. Thor finally landed a devastating blow and Hulk went down and stayed there. Thor collapsed beside him, laughing, even as his nose trickled viscous fluid to the mat. 

“Idiots,” Val decided. “I told them I wanted to take on the winner and now neither of them are in any shape.” 

Loki prodded Thor with the toe of his shoe, “Whiskey or a doctor or both?” 

“Beer!” Thor’s hand punched into the air. “For me and my friend.” 

They clustered around the bar, Thor with a tissue wedged in one nostril and a bruise already darkening under one eye. Val ordered rounds and rounds of shots, drowning them all in potent liquor until their conversation was half in English, half in their shared mother tongue. Hulk paid them no attention, the alcohol barely touching him. 

“Your accents are both so American,” Thor bemoaned as he slid from his stool to wobble to the bathroom. “Have you forgotten where you came from?” 

Loki stared down at the empty shot glass rimmed with blue sugar. There was no forgetting. Not at the bottom of a glass, the end of a joint, not even in the beautiful cascade of orgasm. 

“Fuck him and drink this,” Val slapped a hazy layered shot in front of him. “It tastes like peppermint and an early grave.” 

Loki threw it back. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how they all made it back to the apartment and he never did reclaim his tie from Hulk who found it a useful headband apparently. He woke in the morning with a mouth full of sand and regret, his head pillowed on Thor’s thigh and only one leg out of his pants. He rolled into the fetal position, determined he was on his bedroom floor which was in desperate need of a vacuum. He spotted his spare nametag for work stuck to the underside of the windowsill. He’d been looking for that for weeks. 

“You should stay here,” Thor sat up, a wave of bad smells making Loki queasy. 

“On the floor?” he groaned. 

“No. In this city. I have to go and soon.” 

There was an old Twizzler calcifying next to his garbage bin. He didn’t even like red licorice. 

“So go,” his vision wavered, blurring the world away. “And good luck to you.” 

By the time he stumbled into the bathroom to burn away the worst of his hangover, Thor was already dressed and using Loki’s laptop to find airline tickets. While he made scrambled eggs, plans were discussed in the living room. He piled toast beside them and brought the platter in. 

“We’ll leave on Friday,” Thor determined, picking up a golden triangle soaked in butter without glancing up. Hulk and Val were nodding along like bobbleheads. 

Loki left his food behind and went back to bed. The blankets were cold. A black bird with a long beak landed on the fire escape. It cawed once and then seemed to settle in for the duration. 

“Listen, old man,” Loki mumbled, “if you were ever going to help us, now is a day late and a thousand times too short. But you’d better go with him. I haven’t needed you in a long time.” 

Loki left for work early on Friday, sliding out of Thor’s limp embrace. He stared down at him, the messy fall of his hair and the dark circles that disappeared when he was awake. He placed the lightest of kisses on his temple and then gathered up his satchel. 

It was snowing by the time he got to the museum. Not light amusing flakes, but fat ones streaking down with intent. For now they melted where they landed, but Loki turned his face to the white sky. He didn’t need a weather report to tell him what was coming. 

Their flight went out as planned, Loki’s phone beeping as the tracker app registered it’s take off. Into the growing gloom. 

The director prowled into his office, a hefty silk lined coat around his shoulders, 

“Come to lunch,” he bid and Loki studied the man’s lined face. He was attractive and kind in his own broken callous way. He ended careers with the flick of a finger, cared little for the legion of workers that labored beneath him. But he had a vision for this place, something whole and beautiful and his fingers had always been soft on Loki’s skin. 

“No thank you,” Loki gave him a tight smile. 

“I see.” 

And Loki knew that he did. That he saw all the way through Loki’s fragile glass facade. Because they were the same. 

_This is what I can become,_ Loki looked over his shitty desk at this sleek man with his subtle makeup, thieve’s smiles, and keen eyes. _I can be that._ Smart, wealthy, powerful. All the things he’d dreamed of as a child. It wouldn’t take long. He could wear the director down, learn from him, and consume him. Fuck a few more critical rungs up the ladder and do his job. He would shine like a beacon, king of a mighty collection of the dead. Forget the living. Have his face immortalized as his body mouldered away. 

“I have to go,” he got to his feet, head swimming. “Business meeting.” 

“With who?” the director asked a little plaintively, pouting visibly as Loki pulled on his own jacket, less grand, but enough to keep out the cold. 

“Family,” he said through gritted teeth, though he paused just then in the door. “Thank you.” 

“What for?” the sleepy blink of a lion met his gaze. 

“You were...marvelous,” Loki brushed a kiss on the fading cheek, caught the smell of expensive cologne. “Goodbye, sir.” 

He went out the longest way, past pottery and clothes and weapons and mannequins. He imagined them all sending him off. 

Goodbye to the dead. 

The snow whirled around him, sharp and bitter. It ran over his bare face, licking him until the cold was a part of him. He walked the twenty blocks to the long thin building sandwiched between grander designs. Up five flights of stairs to the office with a broken door. 

There was no receptionist here. Just two lawyers with a strange specialization, desks pushed one to the other. 

“Hello,” he felt a crooked, mad smile on his lips. 

“Miek, wake up,” Korg threw a balled up piece of paper at his partner, drooling at his desk. “We’ve got a client.” 

Thor wanted to fight with fists and bared teeth. Useful in some circumstances, Loki could allow. Loki fought differently. In courts with slick hair and fast tongue. 

He had saved money single mindedly for years. Turning tricks, drawing a salary, misplacing an artifact here or there into a grateful collector’s hands. He had turned into a dragon as he aged, proud and protective of his hoard. He ate cereal and noodles, counting pennies into rolls. If pressed, he might’ve said he was saving for early retirement or to buy his way out of sharing an apartment. 

If pressed, Loki was good at saying any number of things, but now snuggled into a first class seat on a transatlantic flight, he could admit even if only to himself that he had saved for this. 

To go home. 

Three months later, he used that money to buy a miniscule house that overlooked the Hudson. The train wasn’t far, a promise of the city in the air, but he hadn’t taken it yet. There were other things to do. 

Val, Hulk, and many of the others settled in the mountains. The locals took in the influx of heavily accented strangers with a baffled acceptance. The house was just theirs. Two small bedrooms held apart by the staircase landing and bathroom. 

Spring was just starting to slice through the crisp air. Their walkway was dotted with the purple heads of intrepid crocuses. Loki rose with the sun. He didn’t sleep much. He started coffee, listening to the percolator and the rush of wind past the window as he made breakfast covering a plate to keep it warm. He took a travel mug in one hand, and went out for a walk. 

The path wound around the end of the mountain, the river a rush at his feet. He sipped his coffee. His other hand was shoved in his pocket, fingers caressing a single smooth stone that was nearly a cube. Strange that the remains of the place he had grown reduced to such trivialities. 

Sometimes a battle could be hard fought and still be a loss. Something he had learned when he was a small boy and now watched his brother come to grips with as a man. 

A bird call filtered through the trees. He finished his coffee and stopped on the trail, looking over the water. The air cleared through his lungs. 

There was so much beauty here. 

When he got back, Thor was sitting at the table. He had eaten a little, but his attention was on a tablet reading through his email. Updates from Korg, from Val, from a hundred needy voices. Loki topped off his coffee to Thor’s grunted thanks. The eyepatch wasn’t in place yet, and Loki inspected the wound over his own refill. It was starting to turn pink instead of red. Healing. 

He showered for a long time. 

That attic was poorly insulated, and Thor had given no sign of a fight when Loki claimed it as his own. He just pulled on a sweater over his long-sleeved shirt and that was enough to ward off the chill. The light was good, slanting in through an enormous window. 

Loki picked up his brushes, then made snakes of green and brown and burgandy. A hint of gold. 

There was a picture clipped to the corner of his canvas. 

There was no boy in grass here. Instead, a man in profile, his shoulders a little rounded with responsibility. Crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. The smile more knowing and not quite so bright. Loki painted darkness and light, shadows gathered at his feet. 

“I’m not sure I should’ve encouraged this,” he heard Thor’s heavy tread on the stairs and by some muscle memory had already begun to clean up. There’d be no carrying on once he arrived 

“What?” Loki lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t like it?” 

Thor came to stand just behind Loki, after a moment, his chin hooked onto his shoulder. 

“It’s good. But I’m not sure I like how serious I look.” 

The portrait didn’t face the viewer head on, but looked off to left into the distance. The missing eye faced away, just a sliver of the patch visible. 

“Not serious. Thoughtful,” Loki corrected. “I know, not something you’re used to seeing in the mirror.” 

Thor bit him and Loki laughed, turning to face him. There was no seriousness now, no furrowed brow. Loki swiped one finger over his palette and placed a single dot of red on the tip of Thor’s nose, then he was off. 

They raced giddily through the house and out into the woods. Thor caught him in a copse and they tumbled into the leaves and branches.

They made love among the first green things of spring. Loki watched the clouds cast shadows until Thor kissed him. Then his eyes slid closed. There was no magic. He was rooted in his flesh as surely as a fist in a glove. 

He scraped the portrait that night and began something new. A tree, it’s roots bared and twitching on rocky soil. It’s branches two hands entwined. It was no museum piece, but it was what lay in the heart of a man who was nothing.


End file.
